


Restaurant Wars

by Frostfire



Category: White Collar
Genre: Food Porn, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2018-10-04 13:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10279100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfire/pseuds/Frostfire
Summary: The Italian, Peter thinks, is the tipping point.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'food' square in Kink Bingo.

The first time Neal takes them out to dinner, it doesn't seem weird at all. He and Peter have just finished a big case, El’s just coordinated a fabulously swanky reception full of senators and billionaires, they've all taken a day to breathe (and, in Peter and El's case, remember what the other looks like naked), and Neal suggests they go out to that new Japanese place.

"I don't know," says Peter, "sushi and I don’t really--"

"Their gyoza are phenomenal, Peter," says Neal, and Peter has to admit that he likes himself some gyoza.

The dinner is fantastic, of course, and Peter eats a ton of gyoza and some soba that is like no soba he has ever had, and there is of course sake by the bucket. Elizabeth and Neal engage in long, serious debates over types of eel and the proper amount of wasabi, and seem to have a fantastic time making careful selections of sushi rolls. Towards the end of the meal, Neal offers him something wrapped in rice and seaweed that looks heavy on the crab, and Peter takes it, because he honestly loves crab. It's delicious, of course, and Neal smiles in delight and a tiny bit of vindication. Peter rolls his eyes and lets him steal the check.

 

 

Then El suggests that they take Neal out in return, and although coordinating their schedules is difficult (because Peter is not going to waste the only night in a week that he has for sex with his wife on a _date with Neal_ ), they end up at El's friend's Middle Eastern place on a Wednesday night. There is pita and kebobs and lamb with rice; Peter leaves the falafel to Elizabeth and orders a spicy beef dish that has him breaking out in a sweat at the table.

"This hummus," says Neal, "may be the best hummus I have ever tasted in my life."

"Shakir makes it himself," says El, "and if he won't give the recipe to _me_ , he isn't going to give it to you."

"Oh yeah?" says Neal. "I can be very persuasive." He turns on the smile, and El laughs at him, fondly. Neal lifts his eyebrows at her. "I will bet you _money_ that I can have that recipe by tomorrow evening."

"Eat your lamb," says Elizabeth, "and whenever you want more of the hummus, _tell me_ , and I'll take you here for lunch." She lifts her own eyebrows: victory.

Neal concedes with a graceful laugh and goes back to his lamb; Peter catches himself in a slow, happy smile. He doesn't bother to hide it.

 

 

For the hummus, Neal retaliates with Greek food. "Peter," he says, "you have not had a gyro until you have had one of Christos's gyros. You, me, and Elizabeth, tonight?"

Peter considers it; he and Elizabeth had been going to cook together tonight, but Greek food suddenly sounds pretty great, to be honest. He calls El.

"I can tell him tomorrow night if you want," he says, "or Friday, if you have that Thursday thing. Or next week, I think we'll be busy this weekend staking out Thomason's place."

"Tonight is fine," she says, laughing. "This afternoon is going to be full of catering hell; I'll be looking forward to having people bring me food, instead of the other way around."

That afternoon, Neal has to infiltrate Thomason's girlfriend's spa, which takes almost no effort, and keep himself from being noticed when Thomason shows up unexpectedly, which takes a lot more. He ends up dirty and a little scraped, in a suit that has been steamed to within an inch of its life, with a pocket full of scribbled phone numbers from beautiful spa employees and patrons. They're almost late by the time they finish the paperwork.

"Just fifteen minutes to change, Peter," Neal is saying as Peter herds him into the car and drives him to the restaurant. "I won't even shower! Just--"

"It is rush hour traffic, Neal," says Peter grimly. "We are not going to keep Elizabeth waiting through an hour and a half of being gridlocked."

They make it to the restaurant ten minutes late, with Neal still bitching while Peter and El kiss hello. "I just want to wear clothes that don't look like they're about to fall off my body," he says.

"I cannot think of a single person in New York who would not be _delighted_ to see your clothes fall of your body," says Peter, who never ceases to be a little irritated at the ease with which Neal finds people who want to sleep with him.

"Peter!" says Neal, half-laughing. "Sarah? Diana? _Hughes_?"

"They don't have to want you to appreciate a work of art when they see it, Neal," says Elizabeth, and leads him into the restaurant during the delighted pause. Peter shakes his head and follows: he can't really argue, after all.

The gyros are easily the best Peter has ever had. Neal wears a pleased smile and sits next to Elizabeth in the booth, sidling close and stealing her grape leaves. Elizabeth plays footsie with Peter under the table, and Peter will swear until his dying day that his feet and Neal's do not touch.

 

 

The Italian, Peter thinks, is the tipping point. He chose the restaurant this time; it isn't fancy, but it is authentic, and their alfredo sauce is like a religious experience. Neal makes an obscene noise when he puts the first bite in his mouth, eyes falling shut while he chews. Peter is normally capable of dealing with this sort of thing, but he's ordered the same entree, and he can only make his own noise in agreement, helplessly watching the line of Neal's throat as he swallows.

"Peter," says Neal, and his tone is something deep and rougher than usual, "I think you win."

"It's not a zero-sum game, Neal," says El, sounding both amused and turned on. Peter looks at her; she's watching Neal twirl his fork in his pasta.

"My mistake," says Neal, and now there's a hint of a smile. "Peter has advanced the group to a new level; we are all ahead of our previous position."

"Everyone's a winner," says Peter. "El, how's your shrimp?"

"Delicious," she says. "And excellent choice on the wine, Neal."

Peter has to agree. Neal smiles, pleased with himself, and tops up Elizabeth's glass. The fettuccine is heavy, and pretty soon they're ordering another bottle; Peter starts to feel it just a little, in how warm he is, how intimate the setting suddenly seems. They're sitting in a round booth, and Neal has somehow ended up in the middle; they're closed off from the rest of the room. The lighting is dim. Peter has to tell himself to keep a little bit of space between himself and Neal, although he wants to sit closer, feel Neal's hip and thigh against his own. Red wine always does this to him.

El is clearly feeling it too; as she’s slowing down, she says, “Neal, do you want to try some of this? The shrimp are fantastic.”

“Sure,” says Neal, “thanks,” and Elizabeth spears a little shrimp on her fork and holds it out to him. Neal leans in and takes it delicately between his teeth, eyes flickering up to Elizabeth’s face as he pulls back and chews. Peter tears his eyes away from Neal and looks at her too; she’s watching Neal’s mouth.

Peter takes a deep breath--garlic, Neal, El’s new perfume--and sets his wineglass aside. He has to drive back, and anyway, this way madness lies.

 

 

The next week is absolute shit for all of them; El has to deal with some sort of nightmare double-booking venue situation, an unhappy client, five hundred guests that need to be relocated on short notice, on and on and on until she only hangs up the phone right before she falls into bed. Peter and Neal are hunting Thomason, on whom they finally have sufficient evidence, but who pulled a runner in the middle of their sting over the weekend, and is now buried somewhere in New York. They crash a couple of secret midnight meetings, chase people through alleys. On Wednesday they get shot at.

“White collar crime is so boring,” says Neal. “Mortgage fraud, embezzlement schemes, dirty accountants, you know.” They’re crouched behind a dumpster. A bullet _pings_ off the other side. “It’s just numbers, really. Spreadsheets all over the place.”

“Shut up,” says Peter. “Keep your head down. If you get shot, Hughes will come down on my ass like a ton of bricks.”

“Please trust me, Peter,” says Neal. “I will be doing everything in my power to keep from getting shot.”

For a miracle, neither of them gets shot. However, they’re out in the dirtiest parts of the city until four o’clock in the morning, Neal ruins another suit--“Byron is spinning in his grave,” he mutters--and they finish up the night back at the office, making emergency phone calls, filling out paperwork for the morning’s operation, and watching the sky lighten through glass walls.

Thomason goes down, hallelujah, and Peter finally goes home late that night; he collapses next to El and sleeps for eleven hours straight, and wakes up to El smiling and rested--the party was last night, he remembers. They make pancakes for breakfast and have slow, lazy sex that takes up most of the afternoon and feels _amazing_. Dinner is sandwiches, and Peter is vaguely contemplating evening plans--movie, cutthroat Scrabble, more athletic sex?--when the phone rings.

“Hey,” says Neal, “have you guys eaten?”

“We have, actually,” says Peter, feeling a moment of regret--well, he wouldn’t have wanted to go out to eat tonight, anyway; he and El are in pajamas right now.

“Good,” says Neal, obscurely. “Can I come over?”

Peter closes his eyes and manages, through some deep breathing, to make himself not ask. “Sure,” he says.

There’s a brief, startled silence. “Okay,” says Neal. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Looking forward to it,” says Peter, and hangs up in self-appreciation. “Neal’s coming over,” he tells El.

El also looks startled for a second, and then breaks into a slow smile that has Peter reconsidering the athletic sex. “Good,” she says.

Neal shows up with a white box tied with string.

“Ah,” says Peter, contemplating it. “Dessert.”

“Dessert,” says Neal, giving Peter the smile. “Chocolate ganache, raspberry and chocolate cream filling, the moistest cake you will find in the city of New York. Get out the forks.”

They can’t bring themselves to sit at the table; instead, they arrange themselves on the floor around the coffee table and attack the thing with their forks. “Oh my God,” says Peter; there are _levels_ of chocolate in this thing: bitter, sweet, very sweet, all spreading over his tongue. “I’m going to be in the gym all weekend to make up for this.”

“Honey,” says Elizabeth, “some pleasures should not be adulterated by negative thinking.” She’s somehow snagged an entire forkful of the raspberry filling, and her lips are pink with it. Neal is between them again, sprawled against Elizabeth’s side, and her hand is in his hair; Peter leans around him and kisses the raspberry from Elizabeth’s lips, soft and sweet. Neal is warm against his side.

When Peter leans back, Neal has turned slightly, unabashed, to watch them. “I couldn’t agree more,” he says, and sucks ganache off of his fork. Peter watches him take another bite, the brief flash of his tongue, his blissed-out expression, the way his throat works when he swallows, and he suddenly wants this, so badly. Elizabeth’s fingers stroke down Neal’s jaw, and Neal tilts his head up as Peter leans in, kissing him, tasting his mouth.  



End file.
